


The True Story of What Was

by geekwriter143 (Sena)



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Angst, Canon Related, Character Study, Childhood, First Time, M/M, Molestation, Pre-Canon, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-29
Updated: 2011-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-26 16:23:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sena/pseuds/geekwriter143
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Slices of Nick's life pre-CSI</p>
            </blockquote>





	The True Story of What Was

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2004.

He's Superman, Spiderman, The Green Lantern, and The Lone Ranger all rolled into one. He's painted a mask around his eyes with his mother's eyeshadow. He's wearing a towel tied around his neck for a cape. He's wearing his sister's dance tights and leotard and he thinks he looks like Batman from TV.

Barbies line the floor, laying in a row across a piece of his brother's Hot Wheels track, a train quickly chugging its way towards their helpless forms. A teddy bear crosses the street, not seeing the Tonka truck heading directly for him. Stuffed bunnies climb a pillow mountain, unaware of the avalanche that will soon put their lives in peril. Every toy faces death and he saves every one. He's a superhero. He knows deep in the marrow of his bones that he was put on earth to save people, to right wrongs, to fight for justice.

He's rearranging the pillows, creating caves that the Barbies will fall into and where they will wait for him, their savior, to rescue them.

He hears his father's footsteps behind him but he doesn't realize that his father is heading for him until he feels strong hands on his skinny arms, strong hands that hurt as they yank him to his feet, strong hands that sting as they knock the Barbies forcefully from his hands.

"What are you doing, Nick? Just what do you think you're doing? Look at you! Look at you!"

He doesn't know why his father's so angry but he can tell that he is, can see the color rising in his father's cheeks and the vein on his right temple begin to throb.

"What do you think you're doing?" his father demands. "Answer me!"

His father is a hundred feet tall. His father is the biggest, the strongest, the most powerful man in the universe. Nick knows this as surely as he knows his own name. His father has never been angry with him before, not like this. He doesn't know what he's done wrong, but he can tell from his father's reaction that it's very, very bad.

His lower lip begins to quiver as he stares up at his father. His father continues to shout at him but he can't reply. He doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what it is that will make his father stop yelling, what will make his father love him again.

Because he doesn't, now; his father doesn't love him now because he's been very, very bad. Nick can feel it and the realization terrifies him more than anything else has in his six years on earth. He wants to know what he did that was bad, he wants to promise that he'll stop it, that he'll never do it again, that he'll make it better but he doesn't. Instead he starts to cry and he knows it's the wrong thing to do because his father only gets angrier but he doesn't know what else to do.

Then his mother's there. scooping him up in her arms, smoothing his hair, kissing his cheeks. "Hush, angel," she whispers. "Hush, baby, it's OK."

Nick clings to her, wraps his fingers around the lapel of her suit as his parents begin to argue. He buries his face in his mother's hair, knowing they're fighting about him.

"You baby him too much. He's going to turn into a sissy," his father says. "Look at him, in his sister's clothes, wearing your makeup? You're telling me I'm not supposed to worry about that?"

Nick chokes back his tears and clings to his mother. He wants to shout at his father, has never hated his father before but he hates him now. He's not a sissy, he's a superhero, but he doesn't know how to find the words.

 

**********

 

His bedroom is dark and he sits on his bed with his back pressed against the headboard, his eyes fixed on his bedroom door. He's holding his pillow in his arms, clinging to it and not moving, barely daring to blink or to breathe.

He can hear her. He can hear her moving around the house. She's downstairs and he doesn't want to move because if she hears him she might come back.

He doesn't know what it is that they did, doesn't understand why she touched him like she did, why she made him touch her in places he knew he wasn't supposed to touch. He just knows it was bad.

When his parents get home he doesn't run down the steps to greet them like he usually would. He stays in his room, stays frozen in place. He hears the babysitter leave but he still doesn't move.

Before his mom got home he thought that he'd run to her and tell her what happened and that she'd somehow make it all right, that she'd take away the fear and the pain and make him OK again. Now that she's home he doesn't move. He did a bad thing. He doesn't want her to know what he did, doesn't want her to know how bad he is.

He's never felt dirty before, but he feels it now. It's not like playing in the backyard and getting so covered in mud that his mother has to hose him off before letting him back inside. The dirt seeps into him, into his skin, into his bones. He knows the bad thing he did with the babysitter has made him bad and when he hears his mother's footsteps on the stairs he rushes to lay down and he squeezes his eyes shut tight. He pretends to be asleep when she comes in to check on him. He doesn't want her to touch him because he's afraid that he'll make her bad, too.

His mother brushes her fingers over his hair and leans to kiss his forehead. The feeling of her lips on his skin used to make him feel loved but it doesn't tonight. He feels hollow and fake, and he knows that she wouldn't kiss his forehead if she knew what he'd done.

Fighting back tears, he promises himself that he'll never be bad again. He's a good boy, he's always been a good boy. One day, he'll figure out how to be a good boy again.

**********

He doesn't want to play football. He didn't like it in elementary school. He didn't like it in junior high. He knows he won't like it in high school but he goes out for the team anyway.

He likes to run. He likes to play tennis. He likes anything where he doesn't have to rely on anyone but himself. Tennis and track aren't good enough, though, not in Texas. Boys play football, so Nick plays football.

He's not very good. He's small for his age. He won't get his growth spurt until he's a junior, but he doesn't know that now. Now all he knows is that he skinny and short and he thinks that he'll be skinny and short for the rest of his life.

It's a relief when he gets cut from the team. He knows his father won't be pleased, but he also knows it's not his fault. The coach told him so. "You've got a lot of heart, Nick, but you just don't have the size. Next year, maybe, when you've grown a few inches."

Nick pretends to be disappointed, but he's not. He goes to his room and he knows his parents think he's moping. He doesn't mind getting cut from the team at all.

He keeps copies of "Scientific American" under his mattress. He knows it's weird. He knows other fourteen year-olds keep porno mags beneath their mattresses. His father probably wouldn't care if he had porno mags, but he doesn't like it when Nick retreats into his studies. He's too bookish. His life isn't balanced. Sure, it's great that he gets good grades but he needs to concentrate on things other than just school.

When Nick says he wants to be a scientist his father frowns. "Law school," his father whispers conspiratorially to anyone within earshot.

He doesn't know that in ten years he'll be a cop on the Dallas police force. He doesn't know that he'll choose law enforcement as much to piss his father off as to fulfill his childhood dream of saving people.

Now all he knows is that he's relieved that he got cut from the football team because it will give him more time to do what he really loves to do. He opens a well-worn issue of "Scientific American." He's read every article, but he'll read them again because they reassure him somehow. He likes the order in science, the predictability. He likes how scientists start with a puzzle and fit things together piece by piece until they have an answer.

He wishes his father hadn't thrown his chemistry set away.

 

**********

 

He knows he's not cool. He's smart. He's dependable. He's a nice guy, and nice guys are never cool. Sometimes he wishes he could be like his brother. He wishes he could have a souped up car and a cheerleader girlfriend and a letterman's jacket for football, but he doesn't. He's not uncool, but he's also not the cool guy, he's just nice guy Nick.

It surprises him when David asks him over. David's a junior, like Nick, but they've never really been friends. David's cool, a football star, the best tailback their high school's ever seen. It surprises him when David invites him over, says, "Hey, you wanna come over and watch a movie? Or we can play Nintendo." It surprises him, but he tries not to let it show. He agrees immediately. He thinks maybe David wants to be his friend.

David spends most of the night talking about his girlfriend, Laura, and how she won't put out. He talks about all the other girls he's nailed and Nick nods and agrees as if he has any idea what David's talking about. Nick's never had sex. Well, unless you counted...but he didn't count that. It wasn't sex, wasn't real sex, was just a bad memory he tried to push from his mind.

David's talking about how horny Laura makes him, about how she won't even go down on him. He spreads his legs and shifts forward on the couch. His hand rests on his thigh and Nick's breath catches in his throat as he sees David begin to massage his dick through his jeans.

He knows, then, why David invited him over. He knows what he's supposed to do. He's never done it before. He's thought about it, dreamed about it, but he's never actually done it. He thinks he should feel angry that David expects him to do it, but he doesn't. He's nervous, but he's also excited. He reaches out and places his hand between David's legs. He starts to rub and he feels a surge of power as David groans and lets his head fall back.

Nick unfastens David's jeans and leans forward and takes David's cock into his mouth. He's never done it before, but he's thought about it a lot and he's pleasantly surprised to discover that he's pretty good. David seems to think so, anyway. He grips Nick's hair in his hands and arches his hips up as Nick sucks him. "God, that's so fucking good," David moans. "Suck it. Suck my cock, you faggot."

The word stings him like nothing else ever has, but he doesn't stop. He sucks David off and when he's done David can't look at him. Nick leaves, rides his bike home, wishes that his mother had gotten him a car instead of the stupid set of encyclopedias.

If he had a car he could just get on the interstate and drive, not anywhere in particular, just drive. He could get away, could go anywhere, could disappear and become someone else, someone, anyone except who he is. Nice guy Nick, dependable Nick, Nick the good boy, Nick the faggot.

A week later, David asks him over again. "We could rent some videos," David says, "get a pizza. You up for it?"

He tells David to go fuck himself.

 

**********

Beat. Pulse. Sweat. Skin. Heat. Night. Flesh. Sex. Beat. Pulse. Sweat. Skin. Heat. Night. Flesh. Sex.

His body writhes in the crush of bodies on the floor. Lights flash across the dark crowd, illuminating bare arms, bare chests, muscles, skin, sweat. He's lost in the thick pulse of the music, the bass line thumping in his chest and his groin.

He's 19, though his fake ID says he's 23. His head is a dizzying rush of thought that he doesn't even try to hold on to. He had a bump of something—he didn't ask what it was and the guy offering didn't tell him. He doesn't care. His entire body is weightless except for the beat of his heart, the blood pumping through his veins.

He feels hands brush against him, feels a crotch grind against his denim-covered ass, feels the bodies of men press against his body, move away, come back in the thrill of the dance.

The sheer numbers always amaze him. So many men. So many beautiful, sweaty men on the dance floor, crushed together, grinding together, all there for the same reason.

In the daylight he'll go back to being a nice guy. In the daylight he'll go back to being friendly, soft-spoken Nick, preppy, athletic Nick, lighthearted Nick. He'll go back to being a prankster, making the other guys in the frat laugh so hard they won't be able to catch their breath.

Tonight, though, he's none of those things. Tonight he's just another body caught in the achingly sweet crush of bodies that writhe and grind together. There's nothing nice about him tonight. Tonight he's on the prowl. Tonight he wants skin and sweat and he wants to release the ache that builds in him no matter how hard he fights it.

He can't see the man he's dancing with. The dance floor is too dark and though colored lights flash across it they don't illuminate anything long enough for him to actually see it. He can't see the man he's dancing with, but he can feel him, can feel his strong arms and torso with his hands, can feel the man's hard cock grinding up against his own erection.

When the guy says, "Let's get out of here," Nick agrees eagerly. When the guys says, "Your place or mine?" Nick says they should go to the guy's place. Because you don't bring guys back to the frat and it's not like he could take him back home, ask his parents if it's OK if they fuck in his childhood bedroom.

They get to the guy's apartment and Nick can see that the guy's older than he originally thought. Not old, not really, but probably in his thirties. It turns him on.

Their kisses are fierce and hungry. They tear each other's clothes away, don't even pretend to make small talk, don't pretend that they want anything but sex.

"You're so beautiful," the man whispers as he slides his naked body over Nick's. The compliment makes Nick blush and he moans and grinds up against him. "Such a pretty little boy," the man says, kissing him over and over again.

Nick expects to go down on him. It's what he's always done before, and he knows he's good at it. The guy starts to roll him over, and Nick says, "I've never..."

"That's so hot," the guy whispers. He winds his fingers through Nick's hair. "I wanna be your first."

Nick takes a deep breath and rolls onto his stomach. He expects the man to touch him, to stretch him, to get him ready. He doesn't expect the sudden, tearing pain as he's penetrated. He arches up and tries to struggle but the guy's strong, the guy holds him down, the guy whispers, "That's it, that's my pretty little boy, feels so good to fuck you, pretty, pretty, pretty..."

When the guy finishes he rolls off Nick and groans, lights a cigarette, offers Nick one. He doesn't seem to notice that Nick's crying, or if he does he doesn't care. He asks if Nick wants to do a line.

"I have to go," Nick says, and he barely recognizes the flat, timid voice as his own.

The guy shrugs. Nick dresses quickly and when he's leaving, the guy is chopping cocaine on a small mirror with a razor blade. Nick never even got his name.

He doesn't know where he is but he finds a pay phone, calls a cab. He's stopped crying and he's just numb. He knows he's bleeding and the thought that the guy didn't even wear a condom fills him with fear.

He's quiet the entire cab ride back to the frat house. The cabbie tries to make conversation at first, but then gives up and just turns up the radio. Nick stares out the window and vows that he'll never do it again. He'll never give in to that ache again. He'll never go back to the club. He'll never sleep with another man again in his entire life. He promises himself this, but he knows it's a lie. He can't fight it, no matter how hard he tries.

 

**********

 

Dark pink lips, swollen with kisses. Taut body with the sinewy muscles of youth. Blonde hair too long, now damp with sweat. Legs, long and lean wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper, harder, fingers clawing at his back and the strangled cry, "Nick."

He pumps his hips quickly. He's so close to losing control. He kisses the boy over and over again, tastes his mouth, the sweat of his skin. He props himself up on his elbows and slides his fingers through the boy's damp hair and when he comes he cries out the boy's name, "Charlie," despite himself.

He knows he shouldn't think of Charlie as a boy. He's 20, only five years Nick's junior, and he's hardly innocent.

"Don't," Charlie whispers as Nick starts to pull away. "Stay. Stay inside me."

He kisses the boy's mouth gently. "It's not safe."

"I don't care."

"The condom could leak."

"Stay," Charlie whispers.

Nick pulls out of him as gently as possible, slicks off the condom and ties a knot in the top before tossing it into the trash.

He sits up and slings his legs over the side of the bed. He rests his elbows on his knees and lets his head sag down. He'd promised himself this would never happen again.

He feels Charlie's hand against the small of his back. "Hey," Charlie whispers. "It's late."

He knows the unspoken request by heart. The boy wants him to stay, wants him to sleep by his side, wants to wake up together. He never has before.

Charlie stretches and hops out of bed, pads across the combination bedroom, living room, and kitchen to the old refrigerator and yanks it open, illuminating his body in dim yellow light.

Nick's amazed, as he always is, at how easy it is for Charlie to be naked. It's effortless, as natural to him as breathing. "Water?" he asks, turning towards Nick. He's seemingly unaware of his nakedness, unaware of Nick's awe at how comfortable he is in his own skin.

Nick licks his parched lips. "Yeah. Water's good."

He catches the bottle of water the kid tosses him, opens it and takes a long drink. They'd been together, what? Twenty times? More? Every time Nick promised himself he'd never do it again but every time he returned, like a perp, to the scene of the crime.

The refrigerator door closes, and the only light in Charlie's run-down studio apartment is coming in through the thin curtains.

Two months before he'd responded to a B&E. Someone had broken into Charlie's apartment and stolen his TV, his stereo, and $600 in cash. Nick didn't ask how it was that he'd had $600 just laying around, considering the neighborhood he lived in, and the kid didn't offer an explanation.

He knew anyway, didn't he? He'd known from the beginning, even before he went back to the kid's apartment when he was off-duty. He said he wanted to talk about the case, but Charlie knew better. Nick suggested they go out for coffee. They never made it out of the apartment.

"So that's what it's like to sleep with a hustler," Nick had thought after the first time.

They never talked about it. Nick wasn't sure if it was because he was a cop or just because they were...what? Dating? The very idea should be ridiculous but Nick doesn't know what else to call it. It had started out just as sex, sure, but it quickly became more. It didn't matter that he refused to spend the night.

Charlie returns to the bed and sprawls out on it, rubbing Nick's back gently with his fingers.

He turns and catches Charlie's hand in his own, pulls it up to kiss the boy's fingers. Charlie's smile is sad. His eyes are weary. Sometimes when Nick looks into his eyes he sees an old man.

"I should go," Nick says.

The boy doesn't flinch, but Nick knows it hurts him. He reaches out to brush a lock of blonde hair off his forehead. Then he pulls away and gets dressed. Before he leaves he leans over the bed, kisses Charlie gently. "I'll see you later," he whispers.

"Yeah," Charlie says, his voice flat. "Later."

He tells himself it's not his fault. He has to leave. It's stupid of him to go back every time. If anyone found out...not just that Nick was gay, but that he was dating a prostitute? His career would be over. He can't imagine his parents' disappointment.

He figures Charlie isn't returning his calls because he's angry. He only finds out what happened a week later. McGuinness was one of his teachers at the academy, and they became friends. He's dropping by the squad room to take her to lunch when he sees Charlie's picture. At first he's afraid that it's an attempt to bust a prostitution ring, but then he remembers that McGuinness works homicide, not vice.

He can't move, can't breathe. He stands in front of the bulletin board staring at Charlie's picture. In the picture Charlie's eyes are closed, his skin is pale, his lips are blue.

"It's a bitch, isn't it?" McGuinness's gruff voice assaults his ears. "Third hustler to bite it this week. We've got the perp in custody, but still...what a waste."

"I know him," Nick whispers as his fingers brush the bottom of Charlie's picture. "He's my friend. Was my friend."

McGuinness regards him for a long moment. "Nick," she whispers. It startles him. He'd never heard her speak in anything below a dull roar. "You weren't...one of his clients?"

He shakes his head quickly. "No." He tries to hide it but he can see on McGuinness's face that she doesn't believe him. "I never paid him," he whispers.

She nods and touches his arm. "Let's get some coffee."

McGuinness never mentions Nick's involvement with Charlie to anyone else on the case. More importantly, she doesn't mention to anyone that he's gay. "We have to protect our own, Nick," she'd whispered over coffee, "because nobody else is going to do it for us."

He understood, then, why he got along so well with the stern, pretty detective, why she'd taken him under his wing. She taught him how to see the invisible brotherhood of gay and lesbian officers and though it's comforting to know he's not alone, that knowledge doesn't make it any better.

No one claims the body, so Nick does. He opts for cremation partly because of the cost and partly because Charlie was claustrophobic. He wouldn't want to be shut up in a box in the ground.

He puts the urn on his bedside table and sleeps next to it for six months. He thinks of it as penance. He should have stayed over, should have spent the night, should have woken up with the boy in his arms.

Charlie mentioned Lake Mead and Grapevine Canyon once, talked about a family vacation he'd taken there as a kid, before his parents kicked him out at 15 for being gay, before he had to live on the street. Nick remembers the conversation because it was the only time Charlie had sounded truly happy.

He's never been to Nevada before, but that's where he goes. He climbs Spirit Mountain and spreads Charlie's ashes in the wind. He sits down hard on the rocky ground and cries. He couldn't save the one person he should have saved. He doesn't think he wants to be a cop anymore.


End file.
